


Trust Me

by theroguesgambit



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Amnesiac Derek, Berserkers, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, M/M, Mentions of Underage, and normal Derek, post 4.1, young!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 13:30:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1859772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroguesgambit/pseuds/theroguesgambit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We’re friends, right?” Like it was that easy. Like anything with Derek was ever that easy. Stiles cleared his throat, eyes scanning down Derek’s drawn expression, his tense form.</p><p>“I’d like to think so.”<br/>--<br/>post-premiere. Stiles and the group try to earn young Derek's trust, but the only person Derek knows and can count on is Kate (...isn't it?) And once Kate gets what she wants out of Derek, can curing his age issue even solve the problem?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust Me

**Author's Note:**

> Includes stray headcanons on berserkers, Kate's motivations for de-aging Derek, and why Stiles doesn't know how to take better care of his jeep (because really though.) It'll pretty much all become AU on Monday anyway, but enjoy!
> 
> **This contains several quotes taken from promos (all totally out of context I'm sure), so if you like to remain completely spoiler free you might not want to read.

They were too exhausted, too shaken, too generally “what the fuck”ed out to even think about driving home that night. But they still needed to move, get away, get as much space between them and Kate and whatever the hell her plans for Derek were as possible, so they hit the road and headed blindly north.

Stiles drove, because he always drove, but for the first time he could remember he wished someone else were behind the wheel so he could focus on Derek. Everyone was focused on Derek; staring at him and trying not to stare at him… except, of course, for Malia, who watched him openly as the miles slipped by, tilting her head and frowning, looking like she’d actually reach across the car and start poking his face if Scott and Kira hadn’t been acting as a barrier between them.

“This isn’t normal,” she said finally, firmly, like she had just come to a major decision. And then, more pointedly to Derek: “You aren’t normal.”

Malia. Pretty, sweet, smart, unbelievably socially inept Malia. Every time Stiles thought the girl was making a few steps forward, she inevitably slipped back and did something like that.

“He was never exactly normal,” Stiles cut in brightly (because maybe he’s got a few social issues of his own) and sighed when, instead of sniping back, Derek seemed to shrink further down against the window of the jeep.

He hadn’t said much since they’d found him, but it had become unnervingly clear that Derek’s body wasn’t the only thing that had been screwed with by Kate’s creepy labyrinth of youth. At first Stiles had just assumed Derek was being his usual silent and broody, “my life is a thousand papercuts of pain” self (somewhat justified because seriously, _what the hell._ But would a “hey, thanks for driving down to Mexico into epic danger to save my de-aged hide” be too much to ask?) But once they’d gotten him settled into the backseat of the car, he’d caught Scott’s sleeve, eyes huge and lost, and murmured: “Who are you people?”

He’d sounded even younger than he looked… which was _young_ , by the way. Like… objectively maybe only a year or so younger than Stiles, but something about his open expressions and innocence, and the fact that it was so at odds with anything he’d ever seen from Derek, made him seem years younger.

And Stiles felt a sudden urge to reassure the guy, to make up for Malia’s staring and comments and maybe even his own, so he looked at Derek – not just creeping on him through the rearview mirror like he’d been doing the whole drive, but actually turning in his seat to peer back at the guy, at his slumped head and drawn in shoulders and distant eyes.

“Hey, it’s ok though, Derek. We’ll figure this out. We’re bringing you back home to Beacon Hills.”

Derek’s shaky gaze moved from the window to meet Stiles’ eyes, scanning over him searchingly. His cheeks sucked in, jaw tightening defensively, and for a second he almost looked like Derek. Then he sighed and, very slowly, nodded. Stiles was looking away from the road for too long, even for an empty stretch of desert highway at night, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn back because finally, slowly, some of that hopeless desolation was filtering out of Derek’s expression.

He did manage to tear his gaze away, once Derek had swallowed and dropped his eyes, staring down at his hands instead. Stiles ignored Lydia’s soft, knowing look from the seat beside him and set his gaze back on the road, shifting his grip on the wheel, feeling strangely warm and weak, and wounded.

Screw stopping to rest. Stiles would drive the whole damn way without breaks if he had to, just to see that scared set in Derek’s jaw ease up some.

.-

They made it about an hour or so before they saw a sign for a roadside motel and Scott ordered they stop. Stiles almost argued, but a glance back showed Derek passed out on Scott’s shoulder, neither of them looking comfortable.

The guy had been spending the past few months trapped in a wall or something; he could probably use a night’s sleep on a real bed.

Stiles pulled over.

.-

It was nearly dawn and Stiles was still up. Sleep had seemed impossible, and sitting in the dark bedroom staring at Derek’s too young face had started feeling creepy fast, so he’d headed out into the light of the flickering streetlamps to give his jeep's patchwork engine a second look over. And here he was, two hours later, poking at his engine and wondering, not for the first time, why he’d never bothered to learn more than the basics about how an engine functioned. He’d always planned to, especially with all the supernatural crap he dragged his baby into, but somehow (shockingly) he’d always gotten distracted before getting around to it.

The slight squeak of the motel room door was the only thing that alerted Stiles to Derek’s presence. He hovered awkwardly in the doorway, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his borrowed jeans, his oversized adult-Derek shirt still hanging loose over his shoulders, making him seem even smaller than he was, more vulnerable.

Stiles realized he was staring, forced himself to look back at his work.

“So…” Derek padded forward a few steps. “Mexico.”

Stiles nodded, prodding at a stray whatchamathingit and wondering if it was supposed to be connected to that loose thingamabob dangling next to it. Derek was practically at his side now, staring down at the mangled engine. He shifted a little, a hint of a smirk touching his lips, before shoving back his sleeves and shooing Stiles’ hands out of the way. He leaned in under the hood with an air of someone who’d handled a whatchamathingit before and might even know where to put it.

(And Stiles’ brain caught that innuendo about six seconds late and he had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing… or staring again. Even at sixteen, Derek had _good_ hands. And good shoulders. And… no. Just no. He had to cut that thought in the bud.)

Derek seemed to feel the weight of Stiles’ gaze, glancing up and shrugging.

“My uncle David’s a mechanic. I worked at his shop last summer. Or…” He paused, eyes sliding. “You know. The last summer I…”

They’d tried to explain a little of what had happened to Derek as they drove. Really just so far as “you got hit by some wonky magic and kinda got shrunk and forgot a little,” because they honestly didn’t _know_ much more than that and wouldn’t until they got Deaton to have a look at him.

Derek cleared his throat, aiming a sideways look Stiles’ way.

“So any chance you guys are just punking me and this is some kind of spring break adventure gone really, really bad? Like, I got too drunk and tripped and fell into an ancient ruin?”

Stiles snorted, savoring the mental image.

“Dude, like you can even get drunk anyway.” Derek seemed startled, chin jerking up, eyes widening. “Wait… you can’t get drunk, can you? Because that would be really good information to have. You know, for Scott.”

Derek laughed quietly.

“No, I just… Sorry, reflex. All my life I’ve acted human, talked like I’m human, to everyone outside family and my…” He trailed off, scrubbing the side of his neck, leaving a long line of engine grease in his thumb’s wake. “Not used to anyone else knowing.”

Stiles had never thought much about it – about whether Derek had shared his secret with any friends, the way Scott had with Stiles. The idea of having no one to confide in, always holding back when playing sports or just hanging out… He dragged his attention from Derek’s neck back to his eyes, grimacing.

“Sorry, man. Must be lonely.”

Derek shrugged a little, eyes drifting, then flashed Stiles an easy grin.

“Nah, it’s ok. I’ve got a big family.”

.-

Derek seemed confused when they pulled to a stop outside Scott’s house. More confused when they all got out and made their way toward the guest room Isaac had once occupied, and slipped into full-on broody-brows mode when they told him he’d be staying there for the time being.

“ _Why_?” was the obvious question, and one they really had no good answer for. They didn’t want him alone in the loft, and _almost your entire family is dead and your childhood home’s a condemned char block_ didn’t exactly roll off the tongue.

Instead, Scott went with a firm look and a vague “Things are different now, Derek. Just trust us” which Stiles could have told him – probably _anyone_ could have told him – wouldn’t be good enough. But for some reason, maybe it was the alpha vibe wafting off Scott, Derek didn’t object, just gritted his teeth, nodded, and stalked into the guest room, closing the door behind him.

.-

Stiles came home to an almost-familiar sight.

He’d driven Malia back to her place (he still halfway thought she’d bolt and try to live as a wild forest woman again if he left her without some kind of supervision – it had been almost three weeks since she’d tried last, but the memory of finding her in the forest, gnawing at a raw rabbit, still left him nauseous and slightly panicky) and then spent about an hour at the station with his dad, getting him caught up on their Mexican adventures. The edited version, without all the torture.

And then he’d gone home and strolled into his bedroom to find Derek Hale lurking there in the shadows.

He was sitting at the edge of Stiles’ bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. He didn’t seem happy when Stiles came in; if anything, his posture stiffened further.

Though maybe that had something to do with the way Stiles shouted and reflexively grabbed for the bat beside the door before realizing who was sitting the darkness like a huge freak.

“ _Derek_. God, what the… How the hell did you even find my house? …Wait, do you remember stuff now? Do you remember being a total creeper who sneaks in through people’s windows?”

Which wasn’t exactly the most tactful thing to say, probably. Maybe there really was a reason Malia had latched onto him, out of everyone.

Derek barely seemed to hear him, his hands clenching into fists and smoothing out again.

“Followed your scent,” he said like it was nothing. His voice was blank, numb, distant. “I thought you might—” And he cut himself off, looked over sharply to meet Stiles’ gaze. “We’re friends, right?”

Like it was that easy. Like anything with Derek was _ever_ that easy.

Stiles cleared his throat, eyes scanning down Derek’s drawn expression, his tense form.

“I’d like to think so.”

And Derek tilted his head, brows furrowing. After a few seconds Stiles wondered if maybe Derek was waiting him to elaborate, but then he just nodded.

“Ok. So then maybe you can tell me what’s really going on. What Scott isn’t telling me.”

Stiles slid his bat back down against the wall, took a few steps forward, and found himself perching beside Derek at the edge of the bed. It was only once he was sitting, squinting at his shadowed face, that he realized he probably should’ve switched on a light.

But this seemed more like a conversation suited for darkness.

“Scott’s not telling you a lot of things, Derek. You don’t remember whole years. I mean, some things are bound not to come up.”

“Yeah, but some things should.” His hands were still clenching and unclenching, shoulders so tense Stiles felt like the slightest pat might snap something. “Important things.”

There were a lot of important things. Stiles wasn’t sure he wanted to delve into any of them.

“You’ll remember when we—”

He cut off as Derek shoved himself to his feet, pacing a few tense steps before spinning to scowl at Stiles.

“You don’t _know_ if you can fix me. And… honestly? I don’t know if you even want to.”

That had come out of nowhere. When had they acted anything but helpful (in Derek's memory, anyway)?

“What are you… why would you think—”

“How the hell is _Scott_ an alpha, Stiles? On Hale territory? Why does his guest room smell like pack? Not like me, not like anyone I know but… but _pack_. Why would a bunch of strangers who I’m guessing from the date you gave are like six years younger than me, come out to Mexico to save me instead of my own family? How do I even know you people? And… and…” His voice broke, his shoulders trembling, and Stiles had dropped his eyes to the ground at exactly the right moment because he could see the bits of dirt that had fallen off Derek’s shoes, the half-crumbled brown leaf that’d gotten stuck in one of his laces, and he realized where this was heading.

“You’ve been out to the preserve.”

“I wanted to go _home,_ ” Derek snapped. He would’ve sounded wholly intimidating if his voice hadn’t broken over the last word.

He’d wanted to see something familiar, see his parents, and instead he’d found a burnt-out shell.

Stiles was on his feet in a second, hand going out to clasp Derek’s shoulder.

He should’ve known. Should’ve realized.  He’d been distracted by his self-appointed Malia Duty, by the idea of seeing his dad again after over a week away, but he knew enough about the Scott-and-Derek dynamic to realize that when one of them tried to lay down the law, Alpha-style, the other went and did the exact opposite just to spite him. Apparently that hadn’t changed just because Derek couldn’t remember it.

Derek didn’t flinch away from Stiles’ hand, but he could feel his shoulders trembling.

“Derek, I’m sorry. We should’ve warned you.”

“My house is _gone._ It… what…”

“It burned down a while back. It’s ok.” Though it obviously wasn’t. It wasn’t vaguely.

Derek swallowed, eyes squeezing shut, trying to regroup. All of his expressions were right there on the surface. It was nothing like Derek… the other Derek, the older Derek, who tried to school everything behind authority and anger. Stiles could see the fear-hope-pain-doubt flicker over his features before determination finally settled over it all.

“Ok. Ok so… what about my family?”

There was no way Stiles was equipped to answer a question like that. Why the hell had Derek come to _him_?

“…You’ll remember when—”

“ _Stop that_ , Stiles _._ I need to know.” His eyes shot back open, pained and pleading and… oh. Derek trusted him. Somehow, between the last couple of days, a few sarcastic comments to lighten the mood and a long morning of fixing the patchwork job on Stiles’ jeep side by side, Derek had decided that Stiles was a person he could go to for help.

It was a lot easier to win this younger Derek’s trust, and Stiles felt like shit for not earning it. He parted his lips, closed them. Derek’s pained eyes bore straight into him.

“They… don’t live there anymore, obviously.” It wasn’t a lie... but it wasn’t good enough.

“So where?”

Stiles held his gaze for a few more seconds, dropped it. He couldn’t be expected to do this.

“Scattered around.” He wasn’t lying, he told himself. Derek didn’t need to know this, not right now. If he could have a few days of semi-peace of mind before they fixed this and all the nightmares of his life were dragged back to the forefront… didn’t he deserve that?

…Or maybe Stiles was just too much of a coward to tell him.

“You know, all over,” he went on. “Cora’s way down in South America,” Derek’s eyes went huge (of course they did. In his head Cora was… what, ten?) “And Peter hangs around here sometimes, but he wanders in and out as he pleases. The Hale pack hasn’t really existed in Beacon Hills since the fire, that’s why Scott’s the Alpha in these parts. And Isaac – the guy whose room you’re staying in – he was turned by yo—um… your alpha, which is why the room smells like pack. He stayed with Scott for a while once, uh… once your pack wasn’t in the picture anymore. He’s in France now, don’t know when he’s coming back.”

Derek was staring at him in open shock; information overload, and he hadn’t even gotten half of everything there was to tell. Stiles’ free hand went to Derek’s other elbow to make sure he didn’t fall over or something, and Derek’s eyes snapped down to it. He looked up, licking his lips, his gaze caught somewhere just south of Stiles’ eyes… and Stiles tensed with a strange pull that left him feeling like he _really_ should’ve put on that light.

“Are we…” Derek started, then trailed off, and Stiles tried to convince himself he didn’t know what Derek was about to ask. Because he _couldn’t_ have been about to ask that.

Derek snapped himself out of it a second later anyway, shaking his head and flicking his gaze up a few inches to meet Stiles’ eyes.

“Ok.” His voice sounded heavy, affected. “You trust Scott, so I will for now.”

“Scott saved you,” Stiles reminded him, and Derek grimaced like he wasn’t sure. Like he thought maybe Scott had stuck him in that wall just to dig him back out and play hero.

Keeping secrets from Derek was definitely a bad plan. Stiles resolved to talk to Scott about that as soon as he had a chance.

.-

He hadn’t had the chance.

Deaton’s lip was bloody, a bruise already blooming on his cheek when Stiles plowed into the examining room behind Scott. Derek was screaming, barely coherent, and tore and raged against Scott as the alpha grabbed hold of him and started hauling him backward across the room.

“It’s _not true!_ ” he snarled, eyes flashing blue, teeth sharpening, spinning and clawing at Scott instead. “They aren’t… why would she… it’s _not!_ ”

Scott was stronger, but Derek was enraged. He wrenched at Scott’s grip, his claws scraping across Scott’s chest and sending him stumbling away. Derek turned to run, stopping dead when he saw Stiles in the doorway.

Stiles felt his heart beating wildly, felt like he was staring down a wild animal.

“Derek…”

“ _Move,”_ Derek snarled, words barely words, voice a growl that seemed to tear straight through Stiles. He didn’t want to listen, but Derek’s eyes weren’t Derek’s right now. Scott’s blood, and Deaton’s, was already on Derek’s hand. Some primal instinct pushed Stiles aside, and Derek bolted.

Stiles watched him go, then turned his eyes to Lydia. She looked ruffled, shaken, but uninjured, and drew in a quiet breath.

“Deaton told him about the fire, and Kate.”

.-

Stiles hadn’t expected Derek to be there. After what had happened, the headspace he’d been in, there was no reason to think he’d want to be around anyone. But the second he walked through his bedroom door he found himself shoved back against it, Derek’s eyes sparking blue, teeth bared in a snarl.

It was familiar in a way that left Stiles breathing in sharply, that gave him a flashback of old leather and stubble that wouldn’t exist on his attacker’s face for years. Derek had looked fiercer last year than he did now, but the energy radiating off him today was angrier, more unbalanced. Stiles felt his heart speeding up, and tried to swallow down the panic rising up in his throat before breathing “Derek, listen—“

“You didn’t tell me.” Derek’s hand twisted Stiles’ shirt, pulling him forward and shoving him back again. “I _asked_ you and you didn’t…”

“I didn’t lie,” Stiles said, wincing at how weak that sounded. “...I’m sorry, ok? I didn’t know how to tell you. Kate—”

“Not about Kate,” Derek gritted. “That’s not true.”

Honestly, on the drive up, Stiles had hoped this was a younger Derek. That he’d been brought back to a time before Kate, maybe even before Paige (though the blue in his eyes today had killed that possibility). That maybe, somehow, there might be a bright side to this newest disaster; that Derek might have a few minutes of actual peace.

“Derek…”

“I mean my family. I _asked_ you about my family, Stiles. You should’ve told me.”

He shoved Stiles again, but there was no real force behind it. Not as much as Stiles deserved, honestly. He tried to clear the guilt out of his throat; it didn’t work.

“You’re right, I should have. I didn’t… Derek, I didn’t want to hurt you that way, ok? I didn’t want to have to explain that Kate…”

He felt himself pulled forward and slammed back again, rattling the door in its frame. His time it hurt.

“That’s _not_ true.”

How had Stiles ended up here? Explaining the past betrayals in Derek's life _to_ Derek? Telling him, for the _second time,_ that his girlfriend was an evil, murdering psycho? He held Derek’s gaze evenly.

“Am I lying? Was Deaton lying?”

Derek scanned his face, then fell back, posture slouching.

“Then you’re just wrong. She was framed or something.”

“Derek…”

“ _I_ lied,” Derek said suddenly, tight and clipped. It sounded like a complete topic change, a strange turnabout after the accusations of a moment before. “In Mexico. We were talking about me being a werewolf and you said… you said it must be lonely to have no one to talk to.” He trailed off, eyes going distant.

“Last year I had this girlfriend.”

“Paige,” Stiles said without thinking. Derek started, eyes drifting across Stiles thoughtfully.

“Paige,” he echoed, the name seeming to grate in his throat. “I didn’t tell her what I was, and it… I got her killed. She figured some of it out on her own but not enough, not enough to protect her.”

Peter had told Stiles this story, or some version of it. But he’d never heard Derek touch on the subject. It was strange to hear this younger Derek, who was closer to it all, who’d only known Stiles for three days, open up about something his older self hadn’t mentioned in almost a year of knowing him. So it hadn’t been Paige that had closed Derek off, not really. That had barely been a scratch on his soul compared to what Kate would do to him.

Derek was staring down at his hand, the same hand he’d clawed Scott with today. Probably the same hand he’d used to put Paige out of her misery. He clenched it into a slow fist and looked up again.

“When I started seeing Kate, I knew I couldn’t do that again. I couldn’t bring her into this life and not tell her the risks. She knows what I am, knows everything about me. And she’s ok with it. She still loves me.”

Stiles’ legs felt unsteady under him. He pushed off the door, wobbling forward a step, then another, feeling lost in a strange, swirling mess of feelings that might be misery or sympathy or heartbreak. He’d always known, objectively, why Derek was closed off the way he was. What that kind of loss and betrayal would do to a person.

But seeing this “before” snapshot of Derek, so open and loyal and convicted, seeing the huge contrast between who Derek had been pre and post-Kate…

His hand was on Derek’s cheek and somehow it didn’t feel strange – the need to convince, to comfort, to rescue this hopeful soul before he was shattered, betrayed and broken, taking over and outweighing the usual impulse to keep his distance.

“You’ve got people that care about you, Derek. But Kate isn’t one of them.”

Derek’s jaw clenched, but he held Stiles’ gaze, not moving away. His gaze flicked slowly from one eye to the other, then drifted down to land squarely on Stiles’ lips.

“You and I… I feel like… are we…?”

Stiles would swear to his dying breath that Derek leaned in first. But however it started, a second later they were clutching at each other. Derek’s hand clenched back in Stiles’ shirt, Stiles’ own sliding from Derek’s cheek to grip his nape, their lips barely touching before they were gasping open. Clumsy tongues licked into each other’s mouths, all eagerness and pent-up desperation.

Derek’s face was shockingly smooth without his usual stubble, his form smaller, narrower than the one Stiles knew. It was nothing like Stiles’ had imagined… because, fuck it, he was kissing Derek, Derek was groaning into his mouth, holding his hip and rocking in to press flush against him… He could admit now that he’d thought about this before, fantasized about it, jerked off to it guiltily, confusedly, half-convinced it must be normal to get some kind of fear-boner after Derek grabbed him or saved him or growled in his face.

So yeah, he’d imagined kissing Derek and no, it wasn’t like he’d pictured… but _god_ , it was good.

Derek had him backed against the door again, crowding in close, and Stiles just wanted him closer, wanted more contact, wanted Derek to feel what it was like when someone really cared about him. He let out the moan that had been working up his throat and slowed the kiss, trying to feed in some emotion that wasn’t raw need and wildness. Derek let him lead like he was used to being led, sighing against him as the pressure of the kiss eased up, as Stiles’ hands smoothed down his sides, as he sucked in his bottom lip and dragged his teeth along it gently.

Derek’s body was quaking against his, leaning a hand against the door, hips rolling slow and needy.

And the fact that this was crazy, that this was _Derek_ and wasn’t Derek and he wasn’t sure which aspect of that was stranger… the fact that this was a version of Derek he barely knew, that barely knew him… somehow none of that mattered.

Until Derek jerked back, eyes wide and dark and half-panicked, going past Stiles to the hard wood of the door. Stiles was lost in a haze of awesome and perfect and still _not enough,_ his hand going out to catch Derek’s cheek again, but a second later the front door was opening, and Derek was pulling out of Stiles’ grip, stepping back to the middle of the room and looking like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

Looking regretful, like he’d just committed a crime by kissing Stiles.

“Hey, Derek…”

“I can’t… I’m sorry. I’m with Kate. I _love_ Kate.”

It didn’t hurt as much as if he’d said he hadn’t wanted it… and at the same time it hurt worse.

“Kate doesn’t deserve that, Derek.”

“I _love_ her.”

Stiles bit down on his tongue, forced back the first, petty reaction, the “why the hell did you kiss me then?” reaction. Just last year he’d been sixteen and blindly in love like that… or _thinking_ he was in love, thinking someone had literally fallen out of heaven to make his life brighter, and nothing and no one had ever been able to tell him otherwise.

…Except he was comparing Kate to Lydia Martin, and while she might’ve blown him off and mocked him a little, he was pretty sure his crush would’ve gone out the window if he’d ever found out she was a homicidal sociopath. He pushed himself slowly off the doorway, rallying. He could get through to Derek. He could do this.

“She betrayed you, she killed your family. And… Derek, she did this to you.”

Apparently Deaton hadn’t gotten that far this afternoon before he’d gotten punched. Derek glanced down at his hands, back up slowly.

“That doesn’t make—”

“ _Stiles, you home?”_ His dad’s voice from the foot of the stairs cut off Derek’s argument. His eyes went to the door, back to Stiles. He backed up a step, like he was going to run, and Stiles couldn’t fight the urge to follow him forward.

“Derek, let me explain this to you, ok? I’ll explain everything.”

“Like you explained before?”

Stiles winced.

Derek was panicked, confused, wounded. Stiles knew well enough what a wounded wolf did – ran off, hid, and licked his wounds alone. In Derek’s mind he’d just lost his whole family. It was a miracle he’d come here to Stiles at all.

And he’d handled it all wrong, ruined it. Confused him more.

(Confused _himself_.)

“Derek…”

Derek’s eyes were darting to the window.

“I have to…”

“ _Stiles?”_ His dad sounded worried now. Stiles couldn’t tear his attention from Derek long enough to answer. He could be gone any second.

“Please, you have to trust me, ok?”

“I don’t _know_ you. I don’t know anything.”

There were footsteps on the stairs; Derek had reached the window. Stiles’ voice came out thin, high, desperate: “Something inside you told you to come to me. Can’t you trust that?”

Derek’s lip trembled, his eyes flitting around the room like he was trying to find something to hold onto. And Stiles wished he had something of Derek’s, a picture of Derek, _anything_ to make the guy see he belonged here.

But they hadn’t been that close before, not really. Not in a way you could see or display to the world.

“Something told me to be with Kate too.”

It was a challenge, Derek asking Stiles to tell why he should trust one instinct and not the other, and Stiles had nothing to offer except that it was true.

“Stay,” was all he could say, silently begging for Derek to listen to his heartbeat, to _smell_ the truth on him. Whatever werewolves did. “I want to help you.”

Derek drew in a sharp breath. Stiles thought he could see a sheen of tears in his eyes as he looked away.

“I don’t _know you._ ” Derek said again, softly.

His bedroom door swung open. His dad stood there, hand on his gun, expression crumpling from panic to frustrated relief when he saw Stiles standing alone in the room, unharmed, staring out the night-dark window.

“Kid, if you’re ok you answer back.”

Stiles stared at the window like if he looked hard enough Derek might just reappear.

.-

The ratty motel at the edge of town hadn’t changed much in seven years. The walls hadn’t been repainted (though they’d kind of needed it even back when Derek had first come here) and the guy at the desk still didn’t raise a brow at a teenager strolling in and saying he needed a room.

He’d set their signal on the branch of the old tree on the way over: a shoelace with eleven knots tied in it to signal the time. And now there was nothing to do but wait, and think.

It was 2012. His family was dead. They said Kate had killed them.

He’d kissed Stiles.

He knew who Stiles was, vaguely, once he’d stopped to think about it. The Sheriff’s kid, in Cora’s grade. _Cora’s age_ , god _._ And now older than him by almost a year. Who’d looked at Derek like he cared about him from the second he’d been dragged out of those ruins. Whose eyes had held pain and concern while the others had been ugly mixes of confusion, shock and horror. Who’d been sending off confusing vibes that had left Derek wondering if maybe they were something more than not-quite-pack, than allies.

Except Derek was in love with Kate, and Stiles was basically a stranger.

_Kate’s here._

He felt her presence before he saw or heard her, a mix of her scent in the air and a familiar pressure, an indescribable _pull_ in his mind that signaled the one he loved was close.

And she was coming from the bathroom, not the main door. Strolling silently across the peeling linoleum like it was soft carpet, her hips swaying, shadows dancing across her features.

He was on his feet in a second, chest tight, feeling like he’d been holding his breath all night until he’d seen her.

“Kate.”

She was older. Of _course_ she was older. But twenty-two or twenty-nine, she was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. The only thing in this entire mess that felt familiar, like home.

Her hand smoothed up across the doorframe as she leaned against it, taking him in.

“Hey, handsome.”

He wanted to go to her, kiss her, bury his face in her neck and forget everything else that had happened since he’d woken up in Mexico. But his feet were rooted; an edge of tension holding him in place.

“…How’d you get in?”

Stupid question. He felt clumsy, looking at her, like he hadn’t since the first time they’d slept together. She just grinned, tilting her head lazily. Derek’s eyes slid past her and caught on the bathroom window, which definitely hadn’t been open a minute ago. How could Kate move so quietly that Derek hadn’t heard her? She smiled again at his frown, broad and easy.

“Things have changed in this town, Der. Suspicious eyes where there weren’t before. I thought it’d be a good idea to stay under the radar.”

“Right,” he said before he’d decided to speak at all. “Because of how you’re wanted for murder.”

His family’s murder. ...His family was dead.

Her eyes narrowed, softened. She pushed her way off the door and Derek could hardly blink, following her smooth, fluid movements. She’d always been graceful, Kate – every move easy and effortless and just this edge of dangerous – but now it was all exaggerated.

_An animal prowling around its prey._

He felt his breath catch again, forcing back the foreign thought.

“You’ve been talking to Scott McCall’s little pack.” Her words dragged out slowly, almost… disappointed. God, Derek never wanted to disappoint Kate.

“They’re the ones that found me. Stiles… um.” Talking about Stiles in front of Kate felt wrong. Like they were parts of two worlds that didn’t mix. Like she’d sense the betrayal in his words. “They said you did this to me.”

He winced, waiting for her to be hurt, or angry. Everything about this conversation was coming out wrong. This wasn’t the reunion he’d hoped for… or even the one he’d feared. He felt wrong-footed, like he didn’t know how to talk to her anymore, even though in his mind it’d only been a few days since she’d last pressed him down into this very mattress and breathed loving words into his bare skin.

Now Kate was laughing softly, crossing the room and running a soothing hand down his arm. It still jolted straight through him, her touch, like it always had. At least that hadn’t changed.

“Oh, baby… No wonder you’re confused. Stiles Stilinski has always loved playing detective, but he has a hard time getting all the facts. Did he happen to mention that you asked for this?”

That wasn’t what he’d expected at all.

“I… why would I want to be sixteen again?” Not that he minded being sixteen since he _was_ sixteen and all, but he’d figured once he’d gotten past it and grown up he’d be happy enough not to look back. You know, like everyone else on the planet.

“Derek…” Her hand brushed his cheek, and he leaned into it without reservation. Her voice, her touch, it had always done wonders to his most badly frayed nerves. “After the fire… you were traumatized, Der. Your whole family dying in that horrible accident, your uncle Peter going insane. He went on a killing spree after he became alpha, tried to murder me too.”

No amount of soothing could keep Derek from jerking back at that.

“What… _why?_ ” And then, “How’s Peter an alpha? He’s not in line to inherit…”

Kate looked down, eyes soft and pained.

“Laura survived the fire, Derek. Peter killed her for her power.”

He stumbled back, feeling sick, weak, sinking down onto the mattress.

“He wouldn’t…”

“He thought it was the only way to get revenge - if he had the power of an alpha. Derek, I’m so sorry. You weren’t supposed to have to hear this again.” She knelt down in front of him, hands dropping to his knees, smoothing up and down his thighs soothingly. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“So I… I asked to be young again so I wouldn’t have to remember my family dying?”

“You blamed yourself, sweetie. Peter found out about us, and he was looking for someone to blame for the fire. And since I was older and we’d kept our relationship secret…” Derek forced his eyes open as Kate shrugged, lips thin, tilted bitterly. “He killed Laura because he blamed me, because he wanted the power to hurt me and the other people he’d deluded himself into thinking were responsible. And you’ve been a wreck ever since. We needed to find a way to help you forget it all, start fresh. This seemed like the way.”

He swallowed back sour bile, stinging tears. She moved in closer, running her hands up his chest before cupping his cheeks.

“So I wiped out seven years of my life because I couldn’t handle the guilt?”

It felt wrong. It made him wince at his own weakness. But Kate was looking at him with soft eyes, loving eyes, and she wouldn’t love someone who wasn’t worth it, would she?

“But why wouldn’t I tell Stile—Scott’s pack what I was doing?”

She dropped her hands and leaned back, eyes going hard, and Derek’s skin burned like it had been slapped at the sudden absence of touch.

“You’ve never been all that close to the McCall pack, Derek. They sided with Peter after the murders; they believed his story about arson because he was Scott’s alpha.” She paused, searching his face, jaw tightening. “You believe me, don’t you? Or are you more inclined to trust _Stiles_ now over me?”

It wrenched his heart, the hurt in her tone.

“ _No._ Kate… I’m sorry. I just… I don’t understand. I don’t know why they’d try to help me if we weren’t close. Or why… why they’d act like they care at all.”

Stiles had said he cared. Derek had smelled the concern on him. His heart hadn’t betrayed a lie.

Kate watched him for a few seconds, her eyes hard in a way he’d never seen them. It made him want to take back his words, to shrink away or lean in and beg her forgiveness. After a few seconds her brows arched like she’d just figured something out, her lips quirking in an odd, amused little tilt he couldn’t decipher.

“Sweetie, Stiles has always had a sad, desperate crush on you.” He felt himself jump, cheeks flushing, embarrassment and a guilty echo of heat and lips and skin. Kate caught his jaw as his head started to drop, gripping it firmly and holding his gaze. “That doesn’t mean he’s your _friend_ , or that you should trust him.”

But it hadn’t been just lust and jealousy he’d seen in Stiles, had it? There’d been concern there, fondness.

And the kiss had been… it had been… he couldn’t think about it in front of Kate.

He couldn’t think about it at all.

His hand squeezed into a fist hard enough that a knuckle popped at the pressure. It would heal in a few seconds; the pain helped dull the bitterness.

“I’m sorry. This is all confusing, Kate. Everything’s different.”

She seemed to forgive him, then, leaning back in and taking his hand, lips brushing across the sore skin.

“Except us,” she said firmly, and he felt solid again. He had something real to hold on to.

“Except us.”

.-

It was an obvious dot to connect, but somehow Peter was the one to do it.

They’d contacted him reluctantly after Derek ran – he was the only one who’d known Derek back then, who’d know where a sixteen year old Derek might go and hide to feel safe.

That, of course, necessitated them explaining the entire screwed up story, led to Scott reluctantly asking if Peter had a clue in hell what Kate’s motives might be. Peter was already smirking, hard and bitter.

“Isn’t it obvious? She took him back to the age where he still knew her, when he still _trusted_ her.”

And Stiles had known that, had seen the kind of pull even the thought of Kate had over Derek… but he hadn’t realized that was the _reason._ It hadn’t occurred to him that that might be the endgame.

Took a sociopath to think like a sociopath, he figured.

“So whatever she wants from him…”

“She wants him to give it willingly,” Peter confirmed with a clipped nod.

.-

“I need you to trust me, Derek.”

He nodded quickly, eagerly, pained that she would even have to ask. That he’d acted in a way that would make her doubt that.

She ran a hand over his cheek, and he cupped it in his own, wanting nothing more in the world for this to feel _right_ again, easy. To forget Stiles’ words bouncing around in his head: _she doesn’t deserve that, Derek._

Stiles was confused. Misinformed. He’d been listening to Peter, who’d apparently lost his mind after the fire (and Derek didn’t want to think about that, decidedly _refused_ to think about his favorite uncle going crazy, killing his sister to try and kill Kate).

“Derek…” He was drifting. He dragged his attention back to Kate with an effort. “You need to stay calm, trust me, and trust that I can make things ok again.”

“I do.”

She smiled softly.

“Good.”

And then there was a strange pressure against the back of his neck, like a claw driving in, but he was lost in Kate’s eyes, held by some force beyond his control. He should have been panicking, some part of him _was_ panicking, but it was  _Kate_ , and that softened him, kept him at ease long enough for a strange pressure to slip under his defenses, until the world went fuzzy and distant. She was saying words he couldn't understand, but he felt their meaning in all the same.

 _Mine_ , they whispered. _Mine, now._

He was Kate’s; he belonged to Kate. He would protect her, guard her, do what she willed. Something was building inside him – a barely contained rage, tethered only by Kate’s will, ready to be unleashed against anyone who might threaten her.

Just the thought set him snarling, eyes flashing blue. Through the haze of heavy emotion, Kate smirked and brushed a hand over his cheek.

“Shh, not now,” she said, and he stilled, features smoothing out.

“Good boy. Now, forget all of this until I need it again.”

.-

Hours later they found Derek in the last place they’d thought to look – curled up on his borrowed bed in Isaac’s old room, sleeping fitfully.

After that it only took a day for Deaton to discover the reversal to what Kate had done, which seemed way too easy, all things considered.

“It’s always a simpler thing to return something to its natural state,” Deaton said at their raised brows and open skepticism. “But simple doesn’t mean _easy_.”

Stiles remembered those words a few hours later, when Derek was locked into an emptied out industrial freezer, screaming and beating himself against the walls as his bones stretched and grew, returning to their natural state too fast to be anything other than agonizing.

Deaton had always had a knack for understatements.

In the aftermath, Derek admitted that he remembered his few days as a teenager, thanking the group stiffly for their rescue. He pointedly didn’t mention anything about his appearances in Stiles’ bedroom, and Stiles followed his lead bitterly, not willing to put himself out there just to be blown off again.

Adult Derek might not have been in love with Kate, but he had his own reasons not to want Stiles either.

And the knowledge that he might actually be inclined that way, that he might, at some point in his life, have actually found Stiles attractive… well he could have lived a lot happier without that notion eating at him. Just another reason for Stiles to hate Kate fucking Argent.

.-

At first Derek blamed it on the incident in Mexico; forgetting years, remembering them in a harsh, ugly burst, had splintered open every wound he’d thought had started to heal, had left him confused and a little uneasy about where things stood on more than one issue.

But after a couple of weeks it was becoming painfully apparent that it was more than just confusion. He was forgetting things. Blacking out.

It felt like stray moments at first, like he was dozing off without noticing, or getting caught up in a memory for too long and losing track of where his feet had carried him.

He had a lot on his mind, after all.

Kate was alive. She’d wanted him for _something_ , and hadn’t reappeared since the pack had spoiled her plans. His old wounds had been torn open, he had a new cousin whose reckless disregard for life spoke too closely of her father’s…

And he’d kissed Stiles. Stiles had wanted him… or wanted who he had been, anyway. Had opened up to that younger version of him, that person he hadn’t been in seven years and didn't have a chance of becoming again… and he thought with a raw note of what felt like hysteria that if anything was a sign of going completely insane, it was probably feeling jealous of yourself.

Stiles had never talked to the real him like that, had never touched his cheek or moaned into his mouth or told him that people… _he_ , cared about him.

Stiles could have cared about Derek, and that knowledge twisted something deep inside him. If there had been fewer years between them, maybe, or if Derek had been a less broken person than he was.

A whisper in his mind interrupted his maudlin musing. His mind went hazy, something primal snapping open inside of him.

_Kate’s calling…_

.-

The dull buzzing of his phone pulled him out of a haze. He was in the preserve, surrounded by corpses.

Ten bodies strewn out in front of him: snapped necks and shattered skulls.

The phone buzzed again, jolting him out of the surreal horror of the scene in front of him.

It wasn’t just blackouts or an effect of the spell. There were no obvious signs that he’d killed these people – no claw marks on their flesh, no blood on his hands - but he could feel it in the pull and strain of his muscles, like he’d just thrown around a lot of weight. He could feel it in his bones in a way he couldn’t explain, in the adrenalin still pumping through him that had nothing to do with shock and everything to do with a slowly dissipating rage. And he _couldn’t remember it_.

He needed to move, needed to do _something_. His hand went to the phone.

There was a short silence as he held it to his ear, before Stiles’ voice - a little tense, a little uncertain - filtered through the speaker.

“Derek?” The sound of the voice, however troubled, helped steady him. He opened his mouth wordlessly, the scent of fresh corpses dragging in with each ragged breath. There was a soft sigh through the phone, and then, “I didn’t actually expect you to answer, had this whole speech planned out for your voicemail. But we… we have to talk, ok? About… things. Because things have been weird, and you can’t say they haven’t, and I think the whole ‘you getting captured and going missing for weeks’ thing is a pretty good indicator that we all need to communicate better—“

“When you were possessed you had blackouts, right?”

The words made Stiles startle, go silent. Derek took a slow step toward the nearest corpse - a stranger. He didn’t recognize any of these people by sight or scent. Why would he have killed them? Why wouldn’t he remember it?

Almost half a minute passed before Stiles answered, tone strangely even.

“Ok, you don’t want to talk. But that was a pretty shitty way to change the subject.”

Derek drew in another breath, tasted the blood from where someone’s skull had shattered against a rock. A low whine escaped before he could swallow it.

Stiles’ voice came again, less tight this time, soft with worry: “Derek?”

“Something’s wrong with me. I don’t… don’t remember…” He felt his fragile hold on his emotions slipping again, swirling away from him, and he wondered vaguely if this was all just a nightmare, if the bodies were there at all or just some figment in his overstressed mind. Stiles’ voice filtered through the line: sharp now, panicked.

“Derek, what’s happening? Are you ok? Where are…”

Derek felt her before he saw her – a familiar presence that had him spinning, lips baring in a snarl until her finger touched to her own… and the sound inexplicably caught, his muscles tense but his body unmoving, _unwilling_ to attack.

“Oh, Derek…” she breathed, too soft for human ears to hear. Her lips tilted into a mock-pout. “You really shouldn’t have told him that. My secret’s in danger, babe. Go defend me.”

His brows started to furrow, even as the knot of pure rage began uncoiling in his gut.

“Where are you?” His words came out a toneless growl, his grip on the phone so tight he could feel the plastic start to give under it.

“What? At my house. Derek, what’s going on? Do you need me to—”

“Wait there,” he gritted, and the phone collapsed in his hand.

Kate was smiling fondly, approvingly, and he felt the boiling in his blood ease just a bit.

He belonged to Kate. He would only find peace once he’d fulfilled her task.

“There’s my boy,” she said as he shifted, eyes flashing a bright, electric blue. “There’s my sweet berserker.”

.-

Stiles started when a pair of heavy feet dropped to the floor beside his window. Derek was never that loud, the constant creeper. He must really be stressed if he was—

“What the hell?” Stiles’ voice went high as he turned and caught sight of Derek, shifted to beta form, teeth bared back and snarling. He was standing half-crouched, and for a bare second Stiles thought maybe he was injured, doing the whole wolfed-out thing as a defense mechanism.

But then he shifted, eyes settling on Stiles, and everything in his movements signaled _predator_.

It took everything in Stiles not to bolt, his body going sharply still.

“...Derek?”

The eyes that had rested on him weren’t an animal’s, not really. They were hard, violent. _Enraged._ Totally out of control.

_You had blackouts, right?_

“Derek,” he tried again, louder, trying to ignore the way his voice was shaking, the way Derek’s claws unfurled in one hand as he stalked a step forward. “Shit… Derek, this isn’t you. I mean, I’m pretty sure this isn’t you. You’re not actually going to kill me over a phone call, are you, because I’d be totally ok with just not mentioning the whole thing again if it means you don’t rip my throat out with your teeth.”

The steady stream of words was a nervous reaction as much as it was an attempt to snap Derek out of whatever the hell had happened to him. He had been moving slowly – strangely slowly considering that he could have torn Stiles to pieces in a second if he wanted – but he paused at those last words, something like recognition filtering through the blind hate. Stiles felt something at the edge of triumph before the look was gone, Derek slamming into him, pinning him back against the wall and snarling. Hot breath and spittle assaulted Stiles’ face.

There was nothing of Derek there as gleaming blue eyes raked over him. Stiles felt a nervous laugh rising up as his focus broadened enough to notice he wasn’t up against a wall, not exactly.

“You just love shoving me against this door, don’t you?”

A growl and a palm pressing against his throat were the only responses he got, but he wasn’t being choked, not yet, and he counted that as a win.

“I mean, if you wanted another go you could’ve just said so. Because I would totally not be opposed to that. Except I’m kind of partial to your less growly face, ‘cause I can just picture you necking me with those teeth and… ow.”

Derek’s features flinched for just a second from frenzied into confused. His eyes went to Stiles’ neck, the predatory gleam almost sending him into another panic except… except that Derek was hearing him. Somewhere, deep down, the words were registering.

He still looked wild, unhinged, inexplicably angry, but there was something else behind it now, just barely, making his breaths come in fast and sharp and slightly more human. His head ducked toward Stiles’ neck, but drew back at his full-body flinch, looking, for the barest second, repentant.

“Derek… whatever this is…”

They’d gotten off too easy, Stiles had been thinking that for days. When had they _ever_ been able to nip a problem in the bud? When had they been able to get ahead of it, have a clean victory without a long line of corpses lying in their wake?

...Shit, Stiles was about to be one of the corpses.

“It’s Kate, isn’t it?” Derek snarled at her name, grip tightening on Stiles’ throat. But his shoulders were tense, rolling sharply, and a soft whine followed the snarl. He was fighting for control, trying to wrestle down the rage, and that kept Stiles going, voice thin against the pressure. “She did something else to you back there. Got in your head somehow.”

Derek’s hand came off Stiles’ throat, slamming straight through the door inches from his head. He flinched but refused to blink, was rewarded with the sight Derek’s eyes going desperate, pleading, as he strained against whatever force was driving him.

“Derek... I don’t know what to do here. I don’t know what she did to you.”

Derek’s head ducked toward Stiles’ throat again, and he jumped, but his forehead just pressed down against Stiles’ shoulder. His breaths came out heavy, shuddering. Stiles lifted a hand, hovered it over Derek’s shoulder, but the barest touch had Derek starting. A hand clenched down on Stiles’ waist, claws biting in.

“ _Run._ ”

It took Stiles a second to register the barely-there word, buried in a growl. He laughed again, sweet relief that Derek could talk, could think enough to form a coherent thought. And some (possibly suicidal) urge sent his hand drifting down to brush over Derek’s rigid knuckles.

“You’re giving me sort of mixed messages here, Derek. Can’t really run with you pinning me.”

“I want to kill you.” His voice was less of a growl now, almost human. “I don’t… she _wants_ me to kill you and I want what she… I’ve killed for her before.”

Any bit of calm that had started to settle over Stiles shattered away at that.

“How… how many?”

“I don’t know. Don’t remember. Might not remember this after.” His hand clenched tighter into Stiles’ waist, head twisting so his teeth grazed against Stiles’ collar. In another situation, it would’ve had Stiles shuddering for a totally different reason. “Stiles…” Derek's voice escaped as a low groan, and now Stiles actually _was_ having a totally inappropriate reaction, goddamn fear boners. “You’ll just be dead, killed by some unknown enemy, and I won’t… I won’t even know…”

“It’s ok.” Because Stiles couldn’t _not_ say it, not with Derek sounding so wrecked, straining with everything in him against whatever Kate had done to his head. “Just hold on, ok? Let me call Sc—“

But Derek had his hand pinned the second he started reaching for his phone. His head was back up, blind rage and snarling.

“Ok, no. No company. Got it.”

No company, no backup.

Fuck… he was gonna die.

.-

Derek could hardly think past the haze of bloodlust – _enemy, threat, attack_ – but he _could_ think. His mind was his own, just barely, even if his body was flooded with adrenalin, with rage, a raw need to kill.

It was like a switch had been flipped somewhere inside him, the thought of Kate sending protective urges surging through him, that made his rational mind sick with self-loathing.

Stiles was a threat to her. He knew too much, might ruin her plans.

Derek needed her to be proud of him.

“She’s inside your head,” Stiles was saying, his voice something to latch onto past the rage. “She got to you when you were mini-you. We thought we fixed it in time but…”

 _Berserker_. The word hissed through him: an accusation, a title.

And Derek was breathing against Stiles' throat again, the scent of his fear doing something to sooth the rage burning through him.

_He’s not a threat. Smell that? He’s weak, scrawny, fragile. Scared. He’s not a threat to anyone._

But Kate wanted him dead. Nothing else should matter.

There was something else in Stiles’ scent, past the fear. Something that riled Derek in a completely different way. He groaned, nosing his neck (one bite, just one bite and the rage would bleed out of him. Or a shift of weight, a snapped neck... just a simple movement and Kate would be proud, he’d feel some peace.)

But the scent on him, of _wanting_ … He dragged the flats of his teeth down Stiles’ throat, the scent intensifying. A sharp, frenzied laugh barked out through clenched teeth.

“ _Really?_ ”

Stiles shifted against him, his hand still ghosting over Derek’s.

“What? You’re doing all this pinning and nuzzling and sending my body some seriously mixed signals.”

“I’m trying not to fucking kill you, Stiles.”

“And that’s different from every day… how?”

His voice belied his jumping nerves, but the lust was wafting off him almost as strong as his fear, now. His hand was drifting from Derek’s hand up his arm. And Derek felt his features shifting, his wolf easing back to prowl under the surface as his tongue darted out to skim across Stiles’ skin. Some of the rage bled out at the taste of the _fearwantlonging—_

Stiles let out a tight noise, his free hand going to clutch Derek’s nape. And the balance tipped again, the rage surging back up ( _what was he doing? He was Kate’s, only Kate mattered, and Kate wanted_ him _dead_ ) and a second later his hands were braced at each side of Stiles’ head: braced to twist, to snap—

“Kiss me.”

Derek froze, shock stalling his hands, brain caught on what felt like a seven year old echo of hands on his skin, of soft lips kissing him like he was all that mattered _. You’ve got people that care about you_ and a hand gripping his hair, smoothing up his sides and _something inside you told you to come to me. Can’t you trust that?_

Trust. He'd trusted Stiles. Even at sixteen, after knowing him for all of an hour, after he’d turned in his seat in that wreck of a jeep and met Derek’s eyes with a promise to help…

Stiles’ skin was washed out, body quaking violently against Derek's tensed hands, but his gaze held Derek’s, fierce and unbreaking.

“Come on, Derek. You’re gonna kill me anyway. Don’t I get a last request?”

He felt a faint, frantic noise rise up in him, his hand raking down to grip Stiles’ neck instead.

“I trust you,” he found himself saying, wildly, because it was running through his head like it mattered. Even though the words had no place in this moment, even though Stiles was the one with his life in Derek’s hands. “Always trusted you.”

Something softened in Stiles’ eyes.

“Then trust me, Derek. Kiss me.”

He did, dropping in against Stiles and fitting their lips together, hand still at his neck in something between a slow massage and a threat.

The rage was still there, surging under the surface, but his energy had an outlet now. The kiss went quickly from controlled to hot and desperate, Stiles keeping his hands carefully against the door after the way his last touch had triggered Derek, but responding eagerly with his mouth. Derek’s hands were everywhere, pressing down Stiles’ sides, kneading into his chest in a way that had him arching into the touch, moaning.

Derek broke away.

“Only you’d be turned on by the person trying to kill you.”

“And kissing me,” Stiles argued, breathless. “If I’m gonna go, not such a bad way.” He made a thin noise then, hands twitching out, pressing back against the wall with an effort. And then, slowly, firmly: “I trust you too.”

Derek felt a shudder roll through him, something raw and shredded inside him shaking loose. Stiles' eyes went wide.

“Trust,” he breathed. “She needed you young, needed a version of you that trusted her. God, Peter had it right two weeks ago. That’s how she got in.”

It tore at Derek – that his youthful ignorance was still destroying his life, that his attachment to Kate was _still_ getting people killed.

_I don’t trust her. I hate her._

But whatever she’d done was deep under his skin now, burrowed into a place beyond common sense, rooted solely in instinct. That trust he'd once had now tethered him to her, however much he might hate the bond.

Stiles licked his lips, breathing deeply.

“But you trusted me too, at least a little.”

“ _Always._ ” And it felt true. It felt like he’d trusted Stiles for years, since long before he met him. Since he’d been a scared, confused teenager and Stiles had promised to help.

Stiles’ lips quirked again, small and shaky and maybe just a bit smug, and this time when his hand twitched, he let it lift. Knuckles grazed Derek’s cheek, the sensation rippling through him, smoothing the rough, raw edges that screamed at him with Kate’s voice. His eyes squeezed shut and he leaned into the touch, breathing deeply.

The rage wasn't gone, but he had a new tether.

Stiles’ thumb was running down his cheek, raking over the stubble on his jaw, his chin.

“Hey, you with me?”

He wasn’t close to ok. He was still a berserker, whatever that meant. Still on a hair trigger, his baser instincts still whimpering to kill and please Kate.

But that’s not what Stiles had asked.

His eyes flicked open, drifting across Stiles’ face. Yes, the rage was there, but the urge to kill wasn’t. Not to kill _Stiles_ , anyway.

“Yeah, I’m with you.”

Stiles was smiling at him, soft and trusting. Then he snorted.

"Oh my god..." At Derek's arched brow: "Just... Disney would be so proud. True love's kiss just totally broke the spell." And then, his brain catching up to his mouth: "Not that we... ugh, wait, I totally didn't mean that. That's a stupid amount of pressure for like... and I _refuse_ to be that cheesy, ok?"

Derek found himself smirking, the beast his wolf had become shifting and resettling inside of him.

"Don't worry, your magical lips only weakened the spell. I still definitely want to kill something."

Stiles caught his gaze again, embarrassed flush fading from his cheeks.

“Oh, ok then, awesome. So how about we round up the pack and take out some of those murdery urges on Kate?”

Derek leaned in and caught his mouth, grinning against his lips.

"And then we'll take care of some other urges."

**Author's Note:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com)


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